


new and sharp with many teeth

by greatcatsbys



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Non-Binary Character, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Other, Post Season 5, Slow Build, Trauma, Trust Issues, a pair so rare they haven't named it yet, absolutely huge amounts of tech nerd energy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatcatsbys/pseuds/greatcatsbys
Summary: Bloodhound knows there are some things that cannot be learnt, only felt. Faith is one of those things.Perhaps friendship is another.
Relationships: Bloodhound & Wattson, Bloodhound/Wattson | Natalie Paquette
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	1. strange attractor

**Author's Note:**

> what started as an exercise in mashing my two favourite characters together like barbie dolls ended up spiralling into a much longer project when i started thinking more deeply about the similarities between these two. it is a capital-C Crime that there are only two (2) other fics in this tag so i am taking it upon myself to spread the gospel of... watthound?? sparkhound?? who knows
> 
> rating might change as i go along. will content warn for anything hairy at the start of each respective chapter.
> 
> set post-broken ghost, around the start of s6.

She is alone, and she can see the orange hue over the horizon. Alone, holed up in a shelter with no reserve ammo, huddling behind electric fences for security. It was a stupid play, a brief moment where her tactical mind has failed her, and she knows in her bones that there’s another squad out there, waiting.

Wattson sighs, bites her lip, and waits for the inevitable.

The Ring was once a thing of her creation, and she needs no stopwatch to know how long she has left before her competitors appear. A minute, give or take, and she loads her sniper rifle, charges her shields. The other members of her squad fell in battle; Wraith’s blood is dark on her jumpsuit. All she hears for miles is the breeze, and the low metallic hum of the Ring’s approach.

When the gold static of a sonar hits the walls, she exhales a shaky breath.

‘It is just the two of us,’ comes a crisp, filtered voice. Wattson almost drops her rifle in shock, reaches for a grenade in her belt. How long have they been there, waiting above, toying with her? She curses herself for her lack of foresight.

Behind her, she hears a _thump_ , the sound of thick-soled boots against metal. The door behind her flies open, and there, at last, is Bloodhound, tall and imposing in their survival gear. They edge close to the electric that separates the two of them, that is Wattson’s last attempt at a win, and they pause, static reflecting in the goggles of their mask.

‘We are the last two alive. I have checked,’ they say, and Wattson raises her arm to strike. Bloodhound simply shakes their head, folds their arms, and Wattson scowls in frustration.

‘Don’t take another step, hunter,’ she warns. ‘A shock hurts more than you can imagine.’

‘To destroy your fences requires two grenades,’ Bloodhound says calmly. ‘At this range, consider the amount of damage you can withstand.’

Wattson calculates the shield damage, wide eyes searching for the answer. Bloodhound is right, and she knows it. Even if she shot from here, they have the advantage of range, and Wattson is not one to hedge her bets.

‘Take down your fences,’ Bloodhound says.

Wattson stares through electric currents, stares at Bloodhound’s mask where she approximates a face should be. It is far easier for her to stare, this way, with no expressions to mislead her. 

‘You should have killed me already,’ Wattson says, and Bloodhound nods. ‘What’s your strategy here?’

‘I wish to ask you a question,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson’s eyes widen in surprise.

‘And you cannot ask it through a fence?’ she retorts, and she hears what she can only describe as a metallic, muffled laugh.

‘I do not think that is considered polite,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson is certain she can hear an unusual lilt to their voice. ‘But if it puts your mind at ease, so be it.’

‘What do you want to know?’ she says.

Bloodhound stands silently for a moment, their gloved hands fidgeting.

‘It is not like you to fight alone,’ they say, their voice crisp and measured. ‘I feel as if I must ask - are you alright?’

Wattson stops, feels acutely visible in a way that makes her clasp her arms around herself. 

‘Of course I’m fine!’ Wattson says, with unusual shrillness. ‘And what do you mean, _I do not fight alone_? _You_ saw to Octavio, and Wraith was downed by Anita moments ago -’

‘I did not mean in battle, _félagi_.’

Wattson’s hands fist in the sleeves of her jacket, as she realises just what Bloodhound is asking.

‘I don’t want _this_ conversation,’ she says firmly, her lip wavering. ‘I would rather you just kill me.’

Bloodhound laughs again, filtered and glassy, and Wattson only feels more on edge.

‘What is it?’

‘You do not fear death in the way the others do,’ they say plainly. ‘You do not fear me in the same way, either.’

Wattson stares at them in shock.

She fears Bloodhound more than she would care to admit. Much like her, they keep themselves to themselves, distant where other Legends have all but adopted her. The little she does know of Bloodhound is communicated through the wounds Makoa returns with, the wounds that not even an accelerant can fully heal. All of a sudden, Wattson understands the perception required of a hunter. 

‘I fear you plenty,’ Wattson admits, her eyes cast down to the floor. ‘Perhaps my face does not show it.’

‘A useful ability to have,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson stares, feels a heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Why do you think I wear a mask?’

‘Perhaps you are grotesque underneath,’ Wattson says flatly, and there it is _again_ , Bloodhound’s _laugh_.

‘Perhaps,’ Bloodhound concedes. ‘Obscurity is a source of power here. That which you cannot identify, you can never truly know.’

‘I suppose I never thought of it like that,’ Wattson says, glues her eyes back to the floor. ‘As something advantageous, I mean.’

‘You have a brilliant mind,’ Bloodhound says. ‘That is not your only asset.’

Wattson stares up at Bloodhound again, stares at the mask that conveys nothing. Slowly, she lowers her fences, keeps one hand around the pistol in her pocket.

‘Thank you,’ Bloodhound says, raises their arms to show their hands free from any weaponry. It hardly eases Wattson’s mind, as the stories of Bloodhound vastly precede them; death positively nipping at their ankles, hands strong enough to rip flesh. Wattson backs away a little as Bloodhound enters the room, keeps a distance that she can only describe as respectful.

‘How long do we have before the next Ring?’ they ask.

‘Five until the next, and another fifteen before it consumes us,’ Wattson says, counting on her hands. ‘I positioned myself as central as I could, given the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’ Bloodhound asks, and Wattson _grimaces_ , because in no strategy is it advisable to let your adversary know you’re out of damn ammunition.

‘Your face suggests I should not ask,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson looks up, tries her best not to smile at the deadpan delivery. 

‘I did not expect social niceties from a hunter,’ Wattson says, straightforwardly. ‘You learn something new every day.’

‘Such is life’s rich tapestry,’ says Bloodhound, and Wattson hears a lilt to their voice which she could easily confuse for humour. ‘I enjoy speaking with you. Perhaps I could suggest a brief reprieve from the hunt. A temporary truce between us.’

Wattson frowns, tries to think of any possible strategic advantage it would provide for them.

'I can see you are surprised,' Bloodhound says plainly. 'Your end is already decided. Would you not like to postpone it a while longer?'

Wattson stares into inky-black goggles, scours their depth for any indication that this is a trap.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Wattson says, loosens her grip on her pistol. ‘Fifteen minutes until we shoot each other.’

Bloodhound nods, whispers something to their raven in a tongue Wattson does not understand.

\--

They sit on the roof of the shelter, Wattson’s short legs dangling off the edge ungracefully. Bloodhound sits beside her, a foot or so between the two of them, orange of the Ring casting their surroundings in a sunset-like glow. They hit a button on their vest periodically, sending out gold sonars to the increasingly small arena; it comes back empty, each time. Wattson trusts their judgement, imagines the behaviour is hard to turn off. She feels the same in the way she frequently checks her pistol, her shields, her earrings buzzing with electric charge. 

The two of them sit there fidgeting, hardly conversing for a while. Wattson’s eyes follow Bloodhound’s raven as it flies around the arena, moving gracefully and impossibly fast, much like its owner.

‘Does he have a name?’ Wattson asks quietly. ‘Your bird?’

‘His name is Artur,’ Bloodhound says, extends an arm for the raven to perch on. ‘ _Most favoured of the gods_. It was the name of my uncle.’

Wattson fiddles with her hood, bites her lip as she searches for the right words.

‘He must have been very special,’ she says. 

Bloodhound nods, but says nothing, strokes the raven’s beak with a gentle hand. As quickly as it has appeared it flies away, disappearing over Lava City.

‘Where is he going?’

‘Reconnaissance,’ Bloodhound says. ‘I may trust your scientific expertise, but that does not mean _he_ does.’

For the first time all evening, Wattson unashamedly laughs.

‘You think you and your bird know this arena better than I do?’

‘I would bet on it,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson smiles, shakes her head.

‘Don’t make bets you can’t win, hunter,’ she says, no malice in it. ‘You forget who developed the technology in this arena, _non_?’

‘Technology can serve a variety of false gods,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson snorts.

‘You know, until now, I never met anyone religious,’ Wattson says, absently kicking her heels together. ‘Not in this day and age, anyway.’

‘All humans believe in something,’ Bloodhound says sagely, ‘religious or not. What do you believe?’

Wattson looks taken aback at the question, and looks down at her hands.

‘Well, I believe in science,’ she says plainly. ‘In science, and innovation. As do most people.’

‘Science can be a religion,’ they say, and turn to face Wattson properly. The raven lands on the floor above them, silent and unnerving. ‘It is certainly the only power to rival the might of the Allfather.’

Wattson sits quietly, brow furrowed in quiet disagreement.

‘Both have their majesty, and both rule my decisions,’ they say. ‘It is like - how you would say - the unstoppable force and the immovable object.’

‘Newton’s flaming laser sword!’ Wattson says excitedly, her face beaming. ‘You know, mathematical philosophy is probably my _least_ favourite part of universe theory, but still, it was _certainly_ valuable to think about when we tried to re-create void technology for the containment timing intervals, and -’

Wattson stops when she is acutely aware that Bloodhound is staring at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, smiling sheepishly. ‘It doesn’t take much to get me fully _charged_.’

Bloodhound laughs behind their mask, shakes their head.

‘I find it interesting,’ they say. ‘Technology sparks creativity in me, also.’

Wattson shuffles over, closing the distance between the two of them.

‘I mean, I _was_ hoping to ask about that sensor of yours,’ she says, grinning. ‘How does it operate? Only if it won’t put you at too much of a disadvantage to tell me, of course.’

Wattson’s smile is infectious, her cheeks flushed-pink with anticipation. 

‘I will show you. Here,’ they say, offering forward their arm, pointing to the various controls they have built into their sleeve. Wattson follows their hands eagerly, all of a sudden the world’s most active listener, and Bloodhound is encouraged by her enthusiasm. They explain the origins of their sonar, developed at first from creaking parts raided from Hammond storage, to a more sophisticated panel financed by the spoils of their first win.

‘It may be primitive in comparison to your laboratory,’ Bloodhound says, bowing their head slightly. ‘However, for the needs of the hunt, it lacks nothing.’

_‘Magnifique_ ,’ Wattson breathes, positively clambering over their shoulder. Bloodhound sits politely, stiffens slightly at the warmth of her body. They have never been one to be touched.

‘I did not expect the range to be so broad.’ Wattson says, sits back on her knees, eyes wide. ‘No wonder you find everyone so easily.’

‘That is the grace of the Allfather,’ Bloodhound says evenly. ‘It is not due to my creation alone.’

Around the two of them, a siren wails twice, demanding their attention. The Ring encroaches upon them further, approaching close enough that Wattson can outstretch her arm and have the tips of her fingers broach the barrier, wincing at the sensation. Bloodhound stands up with a staggering speed, Artur taking his customary position on their shoulder. Wattson pounces to her feet quickly afterwards, taps the copper coil on her back twice to charge her gloves.

‘To arms, again,’ Bloodhound says, their fists clenched. ‘A shame to end on a sour note, but the hunt awaits.’

Wattson nods, brow furrowed. She cocks her pistol, suit humming with a sharp electric charge that reflects in Bloodhound’s lenses, a reflection that almost distracts her until she hears an all too familiar crackling, Bloodhound’s gloves simmering with red static. They move lightning-fast, and Wattson fires once, twice, slides down the metal bunker as she hears footsteps below her. There is nobody there, not even the tell-tale crow of their raven - until, all of a sudden, she feels a shot to her shield so powerful it sends her flying backwards.

As Wattson falls to the ground, her vantage changes, and she sees Bloodhound crouching on the tip of a neighbouring roof, smoke issuing from their Mastiff. Wattson aims two shots badly as she hits the floor, only one grazing them at all, barely denting golden armour. She scrambles backwards into another room as she bleeds profusely, hands fumbling with a syringe as a sonar fills the room, and she knows as well as they know that it is over.

The door creaks open, a crack of light revealing Wattson doubled over, coughing, cradling her mangled chest.

Bloodhound makes a noise that sounds almost pitying.

‘I truly am sorry,’ they say.

\--

Natalie spends three days and four hours on board the hospital ship, in which time she has received eight bouquets of flowers, three get well soon cards, and one glitter-laden VIP pass to _the Mirage Massage Experience_. Even with as much accelerant as her small frame can tolerate, it takes two days for the blood to coagulate, and another for the bones in her sternum to reset.

She is written out of the Games for two weeks.

When she is finally permitted to return to quarters, Makoa envelops her in a hug so deep it threatens to shift her bones out of place all over again, but she doesn’t let go. Instead, she allows herself to be held, his presence a balm to the turbulence in her head. As he always does with these things, Makoa senses her unease, senses her fatigue before she has to stumble around words for it.

‘It’s not your fault, kid,’ he says, his voice low and reassuring. ‘We’ve all had a close-range wound like that. Comes with the territory.’

Natalie nods weakly, her eyes downcast.

‘I think I want to rest,’ she says quietly, and Makoa nods.

He helps her to her dormitory, which she notices has definitely been tidied since before the Games; _Ajay_ , Makoa says with a tired smile. _You know how she is._ Her desk is significantly less cluttered, the myriad of coffee cups gone, and Natalie smiles, feels a rush of emotion so overpowering it threatens to knock her over. 

‘Fed Nikola, and all,’ Makoa says. ‘Got real close. He’s a mean old bruddah until you get to know him better, and well - don’t be surprised if he comes knockin’ on my door soon. I’m a _father_ now!’

Natalie nods as Nikola immediately stakes a claim for her ankles, as he rubs against her and purring affectionately. She sits slowly on the edge of her bed, Nikola clambering into her lap too, and she sighs, her body slowly crumpling.

‘Did -’ she asks, before each question she wants to ask dies in her throat. ‘What happened after the match?’

Makoa hesitates, before sitting down next to her.

‘Bloodhound took the win,’ Makoa says gently, ‘but I’m sure you guessed that part.’

‘You’re hiding something,’ Natalie says, more intently. ‘Tell me why.’

Makoa sighs, and places a warm hand on her shoulder.

‘Your death was just - a bit unusual, Nat.’

Natalie looks at him blankly, her brain morphine-tired.

‘I mean, I been in the Games for over a year and I never saw anything like it. Bloodhound, they - to have someone in their _sights,_ right _there_ , but then to sit and talk with ‘em, then give ‘em a religious send-off after _killin’_ em - even for Bloodhound, that’s kooky.’

‘We were _talking_ ,’ Natalie says, insistent. ‘About science, and - I don’t remember properly, but -’

‘I’m pleased you been out cold for some of the media coverage, Nat,’ Makoa says plainly. ‘It’s not kind.’

‘What do you mean?’ she says, eyes wide and confused. 

Makoa sighs again, rubs his hands absently through Nikola’s fur.

‘Speculation, y’know,’ he says. ‘About you, and how you haven’t - uh, had the _best_ season - some pundits on OTV were going on about how it was a stunt to make you more _interesting_ to sponsors.’ Makoa laughs at the suggestion, loud and booming. ‘Like Bloodhound’d ever go for something like that!’

Natalie nods, moves Nikola over to Makoa’s lap as she pulls her knees to her chest, wincing at the sensation. _Not the best season_ is a very Makoa way of saying she’s second to bottom, and Natalie sighs at yet another thing to make her insides feel ragged.

‘It really wasn’t that, at all,’ she says quietly. ‘We were talking, and it was so interesting, and - I really liked talking to Bloodhound. It reminded me of how I used to talk to -’ 

Her voice stills, and she presses her head into her knees. 

‘And then they shot me.’

Makoa nods, places an arm around her shoulders.

‘What’s rule number one?’

‘ _Quoi_?’

‘You only been in hospital three days, Nat, they ain’t taken your brain cells yet,’ Makoa says, laughing heartily. ‘What’s rule number one?’

‘ _What happens in the ring, stays in the ring_ ,’ she recites glumly.

‘Exactly,’ Makoa says, smiling. ‘Had to be one of you, at the end. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ll get your mojo back soon, promise, or my name isn’t Gibraltar!’

Natalie nods, knows Makoa is right as always, but still feels on edge.

‘Have you -’ Natalie asks quietly. ‘Have you seen them lately?’

‘Not since the game,’ Makoa says. ‘Bloodhound knows I got all the respect in the world for them as a fighter, but after taking down my sis like that? They know to steer clear.’

Despite the ache in her chest and her head, Natalie laughs.

‘Here to defend my honour, I see,’ she says, shaking her head in amusement. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’

‘Everyone loves you, kid,’ Makoa says. ‘It hurts to see you get hurt.’

‘Some advice then, _Gibraltar_ ,’ Natalie says, a broad grin on her face. ‘Perhaps don’t enrol in a bloodsport.’

Makoa laughs his hearty, booming laugh, and stands up.

‘They ain’t callin’ you a genius for nothin’,’ he says, smiling. ‘Now - you want that rest?’

Makoa helps her into bed, puts her pain medication and her well-worn Nessie at her bedside, places a sleeping Nikola back into his basket. He fusses over Natalie until she is almost asleep, until she is telling him not so politely to _bugger off_ in her native language, just one of the few phrases he recognises now. 

‘Night, kid. Sweet, scientific dreams.’

\--

She never sleeps well on accelerant. 

She wakes at a godless hour in the morning, awake and doubled up in pain, clinging Nessie to her chest as if a toy dinosaur can offer her first aid. Light streams through the blinds, a purple hue that casts the room in shadow and makes her head spin with fatigue.

She sits up, breathes deeply. Part of her wants to call for Nikola, for some comfort; but he is sleeping so quietly that it seems almost cruel. Instead, she holds Nessie in one hand, braces herself against the headboard with the other, waits for the dizzying sensation to pass. She has always been sensitive to accelerant, to any synthetic substances; they make her nerves misfire, make her acutely aware of every sensation in her body, and she wonders if any of her fellow competitors feel the same.

Natalie has always known she is different to others, in the way her mind fixates on needless details, in the way fresh clothes feel heavy on her skin. It has never been something she has paid much heed to, aside from the little things; her sensitivity, her confusion with faces, her painfully photographic memory. The last one is particularly cruel. She remembers minute details of how it feels to have blood in her lungs, how it feels to watch a grenade burn through flesh.

How it feels when they tell her her father is dead, wood of the table leg pressed into her back. How it feels when a synthetic growl issues from Crypto’s drone. How it feels when -

She wonders what kind of stupid she must be, to be so easily excited and so easily deceived, even now. How easily she dropped everything to chat with Bloodhound, as if it hadn’t been an obvious strategy, as if their interest in her was only ever for the purposes of their loftier vision; to _win_ , no matter what. She forgets that not everyone sees the Games as familial, that not everyone has to piece together a life from people who kill each other for sport.

_Reminiscence is a waste of valuable time, Miss Paquette._

She grasps Nessie tighter, seizes a fistful of painkillers.

Awake, and exhausted, there is only one place she wants to be.


	2. is it cold in the water?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made the firing range more interesting as a setting because i'm in charge here, babey
> 
> also, as a note going forward: i have now read (and cried over) pathfinder's quest!! the majority of this fic was written prior to it coming out, so some of the major plot points we learn about in the book won't be present in this fic to a large degree. i'm still editing (and partially writing) future chapters of this, so there might be references to some of the events in the book - however if this is the case, i'll make sure to let you know at the start of the chapter in case you want to avoid spoilers.
> 
> with that said, (octane voice) let's go already!!

The firing range is quiet this early in the morning, artificial sun casting the ground in a pale orange glow. Silent, aside from the occasional flickering of an automated dummy respawning, corpses reanimated in quick rotation. Wattson breathes deeply, stretches her arms out to limber up, winces a little as it stretches fresh wound tissue.

_No Games for two weeks_ , they’d said. They hadn’t said anything about no training.

Wattson will not leave herself vulnerable again.

She picks up a Wingman, the pistol she’d been left with in her last match and damn near missed every shot she’d fired. Her mind replays the scuff of bullet against gold light, of the blood pooling in her plugsuit, and she steadies herself, breathes deeply and removes the sight on the barrel. She needs to be better prepared, prepared for every eventuality.

Her chest aches as she lines herself up against a target at close-range, holds the gun both-handed to compensate for the pain. The target moves sideways, and she aims for the heart; again for the head. The damage count appears on the screen in front of her, and she sighs, her face flushing angrily.

Both shots hit out of alignment, neither of them hitting with the damage she’d hoped for. She curses under her breath in her native tongue, counts to ten to try and calm herself down before trying again.

She is more determined, this time. She stands with her legs wider apart, tries to relax her shoulders and goes through the motions in her head, braces herself for the recoil. She is not thinking of anything in particular, of anything that may distract her from her goal.

_Everyone loves you, kid._

Makoa says something she knows is not true. Something she knows cannot be true, for someone cannot love her like a daughter and _deceive_ her the way _he_ did - 

The gun fires. A complete miss.

Wattson looks at the target, entirely unscathed, and cannot understand what has happened, can barely recall firing the gun of her own volition at all. Her eyes are wide, face flushed, and her skin feels almost as if it is shivering. Seeing the targets is so much more difficult, all of a sudden. 

It takes her a moment to realise she is crying.

Her chest aches. It is a different kind of wound.

_Get a hold of yourself, Natalie_ , she thinks to herself, rubs her eyes with the sleeve of her plugsuit. _Te prends pas la tête, c’est qu’un jeu -_

‘How are you feeling?’ comes a familiar voice.

Wattson whirls around, wincing at the sudden movement. Behind her is Bloodhound in full hunting gear, axe in hand, face obscured as always. She rushes to dry her eyes quickly, folds her arms defensively across her chest, as if even looking at them will make her bleed anew.

‘Terrible,’ she says flatly, her lip quivering slightly. ‘No thanks to you.’

Bloodhound folds their hands, almost as if in prayer.

‘I meant what I said, _félagi_ ,’ they say. ‘I truly am sorry.’

Wattson nods, but does not lower her arms. 

‘It is unusual to see you at this hour,’ they continue. ‘I am usually alone here.’

‘I could not sleep,’ she says quietly, eyes cast to the floor. ‘You’re always here this early?’

‘Artur is the early riser,’ they say, a note of humour in their voice. ‘When he is awake, I am awake.’

Artur crows as if in agreement, and he is so perfectly timed that it makes Wattson quietly smile. Still, she cannot decide what to say, lost in swirling thoughts with no path through them, and so she taps her feet together, fiddles with her backpack. Bloodhound stands quietly too, keeping a polite distance from her, which only makes her insides feel more turbulent.

‘I will leave you to train,’ they say, nodding gently. ‘I will try to make sure Artur does not disturb you, but that is something not even the Allfather can guarantee.’

Bloodhound raises their arm for Artur to perch on, and takes several steps towards the holographic armour. Wattson watches quietly as they choose a copper-red body shield and a Longbow, as they pick up the golden attachment she had discarded moments earlier.

The wound in her chest aches again. For some reason, the thought of the two of them wordlessly training in silo makes her sick to her stomach. She wants the feeling she had in the Ring, the feeling of understanding, the feeling of talking with someone who listens.

She doesn’t want to be alone.

‘Would you train with me?’ she says, hardly realises she’s said anything until Bloodhound looks up at her, stows their rifle. She feels the same curiosity and anxiety she had huddled behind her fences, at the potential of sparring with someone with a terrifying grace.

‘It would be my honour,’ they say, a softness in their voice audible through their respirator. ‘How can I assist?’

Wattson pauses for a moment, her face flushed. 

‘I’ve never seen you miss a shot,’ she says quietly. ‘Teach me.’

Bloodhound shakes their head, with a low chuckle.

‘You flatter me, _félagi_ ,’ they say. ‘Still, I am happy to help.’

Bloodhound picks out another body shield for Wattson, passes her a helmet and shield. They reach out for the screen in front of her, flick through different simulations until they find one that is an accurate facsimile of World’s Edge, down to the warmth of the lava and the sharpness of the breeze.

‘The environment can quickly work against you,’ they say. ‘Talos is an unkind planet to many.’

Wattson looks at Bloodhound, catches a shift in their voice that she cannot name.

‘Good thinking,’ she says softly, smiling weakly. ‘I was - um - using this pistol -’

She draws her Wingman again, walks up to the close-range targets and holds the pistol with both hands, closes an eye for precision.

‘You are training without optics?’ Bloodhound asks. ‘It will not do your injury any favours.’

‘No guarantee you’ll find hop-ups if you drop somewhere like Fragment,’ Wattson says, a sharpness in her face. ‘I want to be prepared for _every_ outcome.’

‘There is preparation, and then there is self-sabotage,’ Bloodhound says sagely, quietly removes the Skullpiercer from their rifle and places it on Wattson’s pistol. ‘Take this for now.’

Wattson concedes the point, attaches the hop-up and picks out some close-range optics for her Wingman. The two of them go a few rounds with close-range weapons, hitting moving targets that require them to weave in and out of lava underfoot, Wattson’s movements rougher than usual. She leaps over a channel of molten rocks to a sturdier position, crouches and takes aim, shooting the hologram in the ankle with full damage this time. The hologram sputters out of existence, disappearing into the background, and Wattson stands up shakily, catching her breath.

‘Excellent shot,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson beams proudly. ‘Try this one over here.’

Bloodhound identifies a long-range target on the map, an orange marker appearing above its head. Wattson nods studiously, stows her pistol and reaches for her long-range rifle, looks through the sight and braces herself for the recoil.

‘Breathe through the shot,’ Bloodhound says, re-appearing quietly, suddenly much closer to her. ‘May I?’

Wattson nods, her body tense as Bloodhound moves their body against hers, moves her hand round the barrel further forward, guides her to widen her stance a little. Their body is warm against hers, leather gloves unexpectedly soft against her as they cover her hand round the trigger, guiding her gently to take the shot.

'And now,' they say, voice low against her ear, 'fire.'

Wattson does, breathes deep and pulls the trigger. It lands with a perfect headshot, one of the best she's ever managed, her shoulder noticeably less sore than usual. She smiles broadly, laughing with relief.

'Perfection,' Bloodhound says, places a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I could not do better.’

Wattson’s face flushes brightly, suddenly aware of how close they are, of how much her body relaxes into theirs. She feels exposed, and straightens up, takes the optics off the rifle and moves to return them to the armoury.

‘My chest hurts,’ she says, a false explanation. ‘I think it might be best if I finish for now.’

‘Of course,’ Bloodhound says evenly. ‘I will stay a while longer.’

Wattson hangs up the rifle delicately, watching Bloodhound aim another shot in her peripheral vision. They handle it with an immediacy and a strength that she envies, firing two shots in quick succession with barely any kick-back. She sighs, her earlier feelings of inadequacy licking at her heels.

‘Bloodhound,’ she says quickly, her voice quiet. They turn to look at her, black goggles unnervingly scouring her depths, as usual, but still she wants to ask. ‘Why are you helping me?’

Bloodhound pauses for a moment, steps away from their rifle. For a moment, the only sound between them is the crackling of synthetic lava, the whirring of targets on rotation. 

‘I wished to apologise,’ Bloodhound says, their mask cast downwards. ‘I enjoyed speaking with you, _félagi_ , and did not want you to feel vulnerable.’

Wattson shakes her head, feels overwhelming emotions rush to her head. She tries to calm herself, tries counting backwards in her head, tries anything to give her some semblance of control over it all. The words are building in her head like a torrent, and before she can stop herself, they burst forth -

‘How do I know who you are?’ she asks, voice quaking. ‘How do I know _you_ won’t _lie_ to me?’

Wattson’s eyes brim with tears again, and she looks fiercely at the ground, refuses to let them fall.

‘I see,’ Bloodhound says quietly. ‘This is about the hacker, isn’t it?’

Wattson looks at them in horror, cannot bring herself to shake her head.

‘How would you know?’ she says sharply. 

‘I did not mean to assume anything -’

‘Then _don’t,_ ’ Wattson says fiercely, her fists clenched, simmering with electric charge. She closes her eyes, tries to steady her breathing. It’s not Bloodhound’s fault, she knows - this is the way her mind works, slow and methodical, then all of a sudden oscillating wildly into emotions she tries to avoid. She bites her lip, breathes quiet through her nose, until her hands stop fizzing, until she feels less like she may explode.

Bloodhound watches as she threatens to cave in on herself, and finally, they speak.

‘In the Ring, my duty is to the Allfather. The _bloð_ shed by my hand delivers glory to my gods, my village, my predecessors. In the Games, my faith is my guiding principle.’

Wattson continues to stare at them, her eyes harsh. 

‘I imagine that does not bring you much comfort,’ Bloodhound says, shaking their head with a chuckle. ‘I am sorry. However, outside the Games - it is different. I am - _difficult_ to know. I prefer my own company, and I lack the immediate kindness that people like you, or Gibraltar, or Mirage have. That does not mean I am an island. I wish to have friends, same as anyone.’

Bloodhound clears their throat, metallic and raspy.

‘That is my intention,’ Bloodhound says. ‘I appreciate it may not be enough to soothe your mind, but - I see you, _félagi_ , and I think - you are like me. Contented, but - alone somehow.’

Wattson's eyes are wide, her lip trembling slightly. Her fists feel clammy and warm, her face flushed and blotchy. She cannot remember the last time she felt so exposed, so visible. 

She cannot remember the last time she felt so lonely.

Wattson stands in silence for a moment, and Bloodhound is silent too. It feels mutual, respectful, and slowly, her hands uncurl, the tight coil of anxiety in her stomach uncurling with them. She looks up at Bloodhound, at their mask free of judgement, and she nods slowly, wiping her nose pitifully on her sleeve.

‘Okay,’ she says, after what seems an age. She smiles weakly, her voice thick with unspoken thoughts. ‘A friend would be nice.’

Artur _caw_ s at her, in what sounds like agreement. She smiles, more sincerely this time, and Bloodhound gestures for her to come over, extending their arm acting as Artur’s perch.

‘You can pet him, if you like,’ Bloodhound says. ‘He certainly likes you.’

Wattson nods, extends her hand delicately. Artur tilts his head, looking at it for a moment, before leaning forward into the touch, letting her stroke him under his beak. She laughs at the sensation, at how quick he is to nuzzle into her hand, and Bloodhound chuckles, whispers faint praise to him in their native language.

‘He really is lovely,’ Wattson says. ‘I suppose now isn’t the best time for me to tell you I have a cat -’

Artur snaps his head away in horror, and Bloodhound simply laughs.

\--

Two weeks isn’t so bad, when she thinks about it.

After a week or so, her chest stops aching, the occasional pull of raw muscle only appearing when she does anything particularly strenuous. Natalie understands why people are drawn to medicine, to bodies; even if her love will always be electricity, modern medicine is something that charges her imagination just as quickly.

She thinks about this on the dropship, thinks about scars and bodies and how she has another to add to her collection, now. How there are some things that medicine cannot get rid of. 

The jump clears her mind of those thoughts, at least for the time being.

The feeling of flying is one Wattson will never get used to, how magical it feels. For a moment, she can almost forget that she is being held aloft by a miracle of science, that humans made this happen with their bare hands. Her jacket shields her from the fierce headwind, and she laughs in delight as the jetpack lowers her gently to the ground.

They drop just south of Lava Fissure; her, Wraith, and Octavio. It's certainly an interesting combination; with Octavio's enthusiasm and Wraith’s relative silence, they have the air of a comedy duo about them, Wattson something like neutral ground. After gathering enough supplies to fend off any competitors, Wraith and Wattson huddle in the underground silo and discuss strategy, while Octavio sprints to gather the shiniest loot he can find in a mile’s radius. He returns a few moments later with two blue shields and helmets, which Wattson is grateful for, and Wraith looks at with scepticism.

‘Kept the gold one, huh?’

‘What? _Mira_ , I put my gold legs on for a reason!’

Wattson shakes her head, straps the shield to her body and points out a new set of co-ordinates on the map. So far, no trouble. The three of them travel to the nearest jump tower, hook themselves onto the cable with practiced ease, and follow the orange line on the map to Wattson’s drop spot.

‘What a rush!’ Octavio screeches as he lands, attempting a backflip as he does so. He collides face-first into the floor, legs akimbo, and Wattson laughs charitably while Wraith grimaces, simply scowls at him before disappearing into the void.

‘That’s one way to make an entrance.’

Wraith emerges from her portal on top of a disused train car, signals for them to follow her. Octavio salutes in mock-obedience, and draws his Havoc, already sporting a shiny gold Turbocharger. The two of them follow Wraith at a small distance, Octavio positively kicking the floor at how slow they’re moving.

‘Hey, _mija_ , now I know you’re gonna tell me it’s “dangerous”, or “illegal”’, Octavio whispers, miming scare quotes, ‘but I got the _best_ idea for a new video! You, hooking up your pylon to my legs. Imagine the _rush_ you get from one million volts, ah?’

‘Imagine the _death_ you get from one million volts, Octavio!’

‘Quiet! There’s an enemy over there.’

The sharpness in Wraith’s voice puts the two of them on edge, and Wattson reaches for her sniper rifle, looks through the sights to scour the usual spots; the roof of the warehouse, the top of the staircase. Wraith disappears into the void, moves lightning-fast up the slope to Countdown, where she climbs into the dark control room, Octavio and Wattson waiting with bated breath.

‘They spotted me. I’m taking shots!’

Octavio injects a fresh vial of Stim into his thigh, runs to Wraith with inhuman speed. Wattson thinks quickly, and as she sees bullet holes cracking the glass of the room, she has an idea. 

Doubling back on herself, Wattson approaches the building from the south, climbs up the decking to the adjacent hospital building. From here, she has a better vantage point; can scan the building properly as well as the horizon behind, and she furrows her brow, looks down the sights of her rifle.

_Breathe through the shot._

Wattson aims through the window, and takes out an enemy with one swift, brutal headshot. It takes all her self-control not to cheer with excitement. Through the sight, she can see Wraith wrestle one competitor to the ground, another chasing after Octavio in front of the building; _keep him there,_ she whispers down the comms, and Octavio turns around, fires at the chaser as Wattson takes a hundred damage from him with the sniper.

‘Whole squad down!’ Wattson says, grinning from ear to ear. ‘ _Bon boulot, mes amis!_ ’

‘Nice job,’ Wraith says, reloading her pistol. ‘Awesome kill. You've been practicing those headshots?’

‘You sound like Anita,’ Octavio teases.

Wattson beams quietly to herself, feels a hum of electric adrenaline run through her body.

‘I can’t see any other enemies,’ she says. ‘I’m a good few hundred metres away, will join in you in just a moment -’

Suddenly, an inky-black film covers the scope of her rifle, obscuring the world from view and Wattson cries out, fires a shot instinctively. The sound ricochets around the arena, and her breath catches in her throat as she tries to get her bearings, ducks for cover in the fear her shots draw attention. She peers over the deck she has huddled behind gingerly, tries to find the source of the darkness, and all but drops her rifle as a flutter of wings whoosh in front of her face, demanding her attention.

She recognises that bird.

‘Artur?’ she hisses quietly, her cheeks flushing as she realises she’s trying to engage a bird in intelligible conversation. ‘ _Qu’est-ce que c’est_?’

The raven crows twice, and flies slowly in entirely the opposite direction to the way the Ring is travelling. Wattson looks at him, confused, and Artur crows again, loud enough to wake the dead. Wattson gestures at him to _be quiet_ , damnit, but Artur continues to crow – if they didn’t know somebody was here before, they certainly do now.

‘This had better not be a trap,’ she mutters, scowling, before stowing her rifle and following the raven at a close distance. That, at least, seems to shut him up. Wattson follows him, keeping a close eye on her watch; it is a matter of minutes before she needs to move. Following a bird across the arena is certainly one of the more memorable games she’s had recently; a _fowl_ way to die, she thinks, laughing to herself, and almost trips over a death box in the process.

Eventually, the raven leads her to a secluded corner of the train yard, where Wattson sees a familiar pair of boots poking out behind a cargo bin, crimson stains against brushed metal. She gasps, runs as quick as her legs will carry her, Artur’s crows only adding to the horror of it all.

Bloodhound is wounded, and badly. Their hands are shaking around a med kit, fumbling over bandages and analgesics, but Wattson can see the depth of the wound in an instant. One of their hands is clutching desperately at their mask, hands over their eyes, and she can hear them whispering feverishly in their native language. She feels immediately guilty for seeing them in such a state, and she crouches down quietly as not to startle them.

‘Someone is there,’ they say, and Wattson nods, clears her throat.

‘It’s me,’ she says, and Bloodhound positively convulses, draws their head into their chest. ‘Don’t worry, I can help.’

Wattson pulls a syringe from her backpack, holds it against Bloodhound’s wrist, one of the few parts of exposed skin she has access to. She is quick, methodical, changes the needle with ease.

‘What happened?’ she asks, trying to distract them. 

‘I have fallen,’ they say simply, and if Bloodhound’s life were not in her hands, she would likely snort with laughter.

‘Well _yes_ , I can see that,’ she says, unwraps a bandage from Bloodhound’s med kit. 

‘My – my sight,’ they say, clutching at their mask, and Wattson’s hands still in terror. ‘The sensor, it is - I could fix it, but the wounds are deep, and – the Ring approaches –‘

‘Let me see,’ Wattson says, finishes bracing the wound and moves to touch Bloodhound’s mask. They wriggle away from her as best they can, almost doubling over in pain as they do so, and Wattson bites her lip, feels a crushing emotion in her chest she cannot name.

‘Bloodhound,’ she says softly, her eyes brimming. ‘I promise, I will not look. I _swear_ to you.’

Bloodhound hesitates, hands splayed wide over their goggles, the only sound the rattling rise and fall of their chest. Eventually, they lower their hands, as if in surrender. 

One of their lenses is shattered. Where Wattson usually sees her reflection staring back at her, she sees pale pallid skin and a dull, glassy eye. Scarring covers their eyelid, their cheekbone, and immediately, Wattson understands. To stare feels like a betrayal beyond words, and it makes her sick to her stomach. 

Bloodhound’s unseeing eye stares past her gaze. She hopes her face does not betray them, either.

‘Let me look at the mechanism,’ she says instead, hopes her voice is more confident than she feels. ‘You open up the meds.’

Wattson sits cross-legged, examines the opening at the base of the mask, a bullet dent in the casing. She keeps her eyes strictly on the wiring, which fortunately, is largely intact; the glass of the eyepiece its main casualty. With no tools, she cannot repair the casing, but the sensor can be jump-sparked with relative ease.

Bloodhound’s breaths are shallow, but slower, their hands softer around their dark-red abdomen. Wattson glances down at them, her heart in her throat.

‘I can fix the sensor,’ she says, ‘but without tools there is very little I can do for your mask.’

Bloodhound nods, and Wattson sees their eyes clamp shut.

‘I expected as much,’ they say stoically. ‘Anything you can do, I would be greatly indebted.’

Wattson nods eagerly, grabs the copper coil on her back, glances at her watch. 

‘We’ll get you out of here yet,’ she says, raises her voice with a feigned optimism. ‘Two minutes, _oui?_ The _world_ of time. Thank goodness you sent Artur.’

Bloodhound chuckles, a low shaky laugh that makes Wattson pause.

‘I did not send him,’ Bloodhound says weakly. ‘He simply knew to find you.’

Wattson smiles, her eyes crinkling into crescents.

‘He really is too smart for you,’ she teases, wrapping coil deftly around her fingers. ‘ _Maintenant_ , I cannot guarantee this will not hurt.’

Wattson closes her eyes, allows a spark from her gloves to travel down the copper, travels brightly along the wiring with a loud crack. Bloodhound winces, their hands balling into fists, but a musical hum makes the two of them pause.

‘By the grace of the Allfather, my sight is restored,’ Bloodhound says as their helmet whirs back to life, lets out an exhale as the usual copper map appears against the uncracked lens. Wattson looks at their exposed eye for a fraction of a second, sees it wide with an emotion Wattson thinks might be relief. She smiles broadly, uncurls the wire from her hands and gathers up the medical supplies.

‘We have to move,’ she says, her eyes darting around quickly; once to her watch, once to the orange hue approaching the railway tracks. She reaches for her backpack and Bloodhound’s, slings one over each shoulder, and helps them to their feet.

Bloodhound stands up delicately, with every bit of their usual grace; Wattson nods fiercely, and gestures for them to follow her through the alleys leading to the underpass, the light a sickly-green that only makes her feel more nervous. She draws her pistol - _not_ a Wingman this time - and holds her free arm protectively in front of Bloodhound, as if it will provide much support against gunfire. Still, it feels instinctively like the right thing to do, and right now, Wattson has no time to consider why.

In the distance, she can hear gunfire, and a quick look behind her shoulder shows Bloodhound hears it too, their breath speedy and rattling. They use their sonar, illuminating the dark tunnel for a split-second, and they crouch, examine footprints that had entirely slipped Wattson’s attention.

‘A squad of hostiles have travelled through here,’ Bloodhound says quietly, their blank eye darting around behind exposed glass. ‘They will be waiting for us at the Geyser. Come, _félagi_ \- we should turn this way.’

Wattson nods shakily, does not have time to offer an alternative with the Ring so close behind them. Bloodhound slips down a side alley, pushes open a thick metal door to the bright outdoors. They are a good hundred metres away from the gunfight, which Wattson can see now, as well as hear, and she follows as Bloodhound scrambles over rocks to get a better vantage point. 

The two of them crouch under cover, another round of Bloodhound’s sonar reassuring them that they are a reasonable distance from any danger. Wattson smiles broadly, looks at Bloodhound clutching their side.

‘Will you be alright?’ she asks, gingerly hovers her hand over theirs, worn leather warm against her fingers. Bloodhound nods, looks at her fully, and Wattson lowers her eyes. To stare feels like a betrayal.

‘I will be fine,’ they say, and hold Wattson’s hand tightly. The contact makes her gasp, and she stifles it quickly, bites her lip. ‘If you had not found me, I -’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Happy to help.’

‘Do you always go to such lengths for your competitors?’ Bloodhound asks, a shift in their voice that Wattson catches, but cannot interpret. Instead, she nods, and gives them her most reassuring smile.

‘Those who are in danger, perhaps,’ she says. ‘Besides, I could hardly let Artur down now, could I?’

A low chuckle issues from behind Bloodhound’s mask.

‘I suppose not,’ they say. ‘You are a uniquely kind soul, Wattson. May the gods bless you.’

Wattson smiles, notices that Bloodhound has not let go of her hand. She bows her head delicately, places her free hand on top of theirs, holds them close to her chest.

The two of them sit for a moment, the quiet only punctuated by quiet gunfire. Eventually, a harsh static emerges from Wattson’s comms link, and she winces, almost forgetting herself once again.

_Nat?_ comes Wraith’s voice over the scanner. _Where the hell are you? What are you doing in Geyser?_

Wattson’s eyes widen as she quickly invents an excuse.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers into the receiver to Wraith, apologetic eyes fixed on Bloodhound. ‘Got ambushed by another squad, had to run. I’ll catch up with you and Octavio, don’t worry.’

_Okay_ , Wraith says, sounds a little less testy this time. _We’re in Skyhook. Don’t wait about._

Wattson grimaces as Wraith reveals their location, miming a _shush!_ at her as Bloodhound shakes their head in amusement.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ Wattson mutters to them, a smile creeping to the corners of her mouth. 

‘Your secret is safe with me,’ they say. ‘I owe you a great deal.’

‘I really have to go,’ Wattson says, reaching for her backpack. ‘I’ll see you later, won’t I?’

Bloodhound nods. 

‘Good,’ Wattson says, grinning. ‘I won’t hold back. Not this time.’

‘I would expect nothing less, _félagi_ ,’ Bloodhound says evenly. ‘I look forward to it.’

Wattson grins, taps her coil to life again as her body hums with a familiar, reassuring static. She peers over the rocks, keen eyes identifying the best time to make a run for it.

‘Next time,’ she says, almost as an afterthought, ‘you can call me Natalie.’

With that, she is hurtling full-speed over the hill, speeding past the Gateway banner, heart pounding in her chest with an emotion she cannot name.

It feels decidedly like sparks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Very Important Update: somebody was kind enough to draw [fanart of the scene at the firing range](https://twitter.com/OtterNil/status/1367903820974555145)! it's so gorgeous, please go and shower the artist in love and attention


End file.
